


Twice Befell

by SandrC



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Fae & Fairies, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25875394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: Parting is all we know of heaven,And all we need of hell.— Emily DickinsonThe man who becomes known as Lapin Cadbury is many things: hollow, bitter, dusted in the sugar of those spoken in whispers; but before all that he is inquisitive and kind-hearted. And that, inherently, is his undoing.(An unfinished oneshot about Lapin and where he might have come from.)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Twice Befell

**Author's Note:**

> I started this immediately after finishing and posting Fog of War. I knew it might be as long as Fog of War. And then my brain leaked out my ears and I could never get back on the bike. What I did write was so good that I didn't want to just throw it away so I'm gonna post what I have.
> 
> Please keep in mind that this was written about the time they were on the Dairy Sea, so I had almost no information about the backstory Zac had for our emotional support bastard. So it's just insanely noncanon.
> 
> A few things of note that may not be apparent: Lapin being referred to as "changeling" is a nod to me just projecting my autistic traits onto him (and then some) because I can. Candia-by-Lacre is my way of cribbing old garbage placenames. It is technically in Candia but the portion of Candia by the Dairy Sea, so the folks there are chocolates and cremes and so on. Lord and Lady Swirly are from this area. Haha, worldbuilding. The letter from Lapin to the Pontifex previous to Brassica is a big ol passive aggressive fuck you. It was fun to write. I never once believed Lapin was a bad guy, just curmudgeonly.
> 
> Uh...aside from that, I can say that this would have gone on to cover up to his death and then it would have been a bit of rumination. But I don't think I'll ever have the energy time or brain to finish it so...have this instead.

A good truth is a foundation for a fantastic lie.

And that, too, can be said of stories and songs. Hidden beneath the veneer of tradition and flowery prose, there is truth. One simply has to look deep enough. One simply has to look hard enough. One simply has to ask "why" enough.

"They say if you follow the Sweetening Path to its natural end, you can find Her there." It is an old tale, one he's heard many times, but he is young and nothing else is there to hold his attention, so he looks up at the village elder with wide eyes. His hands are tapping patterns into his leg, recording the feeling of the honey lozenge voice of the elder, who continues, "The Great Fairy, that is. She That Watches the Candy Woods. And if you ask, She might even grant you a wish or three."

The village elder's hands spread wide, mimicking the shape of wings, drawing his gaze, though not distracting him. A question comes, unbidden, to his tongue.

"Why _three_?" He is young then, _far_ too young to understand that silence is safety. That questions paint a target. That he will come to _like_ the feeling of being unnoticed. But now he is young, wide-eyed, and wants to know the way the world works. He wants to feel the beat of the earth beneath him and decipher it into something he can understand. Translate it as he does people, into neat boxes and behaviors. So he asks, "Three seems arbitrary. Why is it three wishes instead of two or one? What's the difference?"

The elder, _bless them_ for their patience, for this is not the first time he has asked questions like this, smiles kindly and nods. "No one knows why, save those that have managed to ask themselves. And they often are not the same as when they found Her, so we cannot trust their words."

That isn't enough for him. His need is insatiable. He is gluttonous. "And why not?"

The elder's voice hardens. He has pushed too hard again, but the fool he is, unused to social niceties and unspoken rules of being a person who speaks to other people, he does not understand. "The dusted are intoxicated by Her presence. They would say anything if She willed it, and She would. She is kind and capricious in one. She is of the fae, after all."

"And isn't the Sweetening Path a type of belief, not an _actual_ path? Why would anyone follow it to the end? What _is_ the end of the Sweetening Path?" He just wants to _understand_ , to break down and consume what he does not yet know, insatiable and ignorant. He hasn't learned the subtle tells of a person's face and, as such, misses the way the elder's teeth clench and the way the children around him—younger than him, but they know more than he does about people and their intricacies—groan when he continues to ask questions no one cares about.

He doesn't get an answer then, his parents coming to drag him away by his elbow. He misses the muttering accusation of "changeling", the bitter notes about his head being hollow, and the relief in the elder's face as he is taken back home by furiously blushing adults who hiss frustration he cannot hear but can feel in the reverberations of his chest.

He assumes, then, the low thrumming sound of disappointment is akin to shame. That _this_ is the tone of " _you have done wrong_ ".

He does not hear the words they say in that tone, thoughts far away on his own Sweetening Path, trying to unravel the reason of it all.

He doesn't understand then—too young to know cruelty past a child's perceived injustice of the world and the foul evils of books he could get his hands on—that there aren't _always_ answers. But he wants to _know_. He wants to know and understand more than _anything_ in the world.

Perhaps if he cared _less_ , he wouldn't be where he was. _Ah_ , well, one couldn't agonize over could-have-beens. One must simply look at what was and will be.

* * *

The village he calls home is part of a swathe of lollipop woods bordering the Dairy Isles at the opening of the Cola River that often gets called the Spiraling Wilds. The large swirling leaves of the trees that tower above everyone reflect light in a way that dazzles and confuses people not already used to the stained-glass effect it produces, leaving them disoriented and lost. So it is that a large portion of their village makes their living as guides through the Wilds, offering services in exchange for foil-wrapped sweetfarthings or goods they would normally be unable to get.

He, however, is _different_. He is unsuited to guide—once having gotten lost in the woods for hours following a marshmallow rabbit towards its warren—and _less_ suited to talk to others—though the years that have passed have stilled his tongue _somewhat_ , he still is more impulsive than most—so he finds himself a scribe. It isn't a glamorous or busy job, but translating old tomes into Candian from their older dialects and transcribing oral tradition to paper is something he's _actually_ good at. It's been years since anyone has called him "changeling" or "hollow", the words echoing into the distance, their sting lost.

So it is little surprise that war finds its way to the Wilds. He has read enough to know nowhere is ever _truly_ safe, so _objectively_ he is unsurprised, but it is the scale that unsettles him.

People die. _Dozens_ of people die. People he's known since before he could talk are buried in graves marked with gumdrop headstones and wailing loved ones. He sees more blood and viscera than any one person should.

Worse still, the supposed "benevolent" Bulbian Church—the same faith that insists any other faith is heretical and must be stomped out, instead of coexisting with it as they should—does not send aid to the people of the Wilds. Instead they let them suffer and die. Better to lose pagan heretics than expend resources, it seems.

In this moment, he remembers the tales of his childhood with alarming clarity. Wishes granted by the Sugar Plum Fairy. Power, perhaps to stop a war, perhaps even to heal those that need it. So for the first time in many months, he picks up a large blank book, tucks a spun-sugar quill behind one of his ears, and heads into the Wilds.

It's a _horrifyingly_ _beautiful_ day. Contrasting the damage being done to people and places elsewhere, there is beauty inside the Wilds that is unlike any other. It seems almost _mocking_ , if he were to assign the disparity an emotional state. The day itself—bright light shining rainbows of vibrant colors in striking kaleidoscopic patterns across everything beneath it, a crisp clean sugar smell saturating every breath he takes—versus the war he is trying to put some end to. The word _bittersweet_ is incorrect. The day is _cloying_ , sticky enough to make him sick, and the war is as sweet in the same manner. Citric acid tearing layers from insides and out.

He wanders, thinking of the gumdrop spires—three or so standing stones of deep purple with space between them to worship the Fairy—instead of trying to mark where he's going so he can find his way back. He knows, logistically, that he should worry about making his way back but _something_ in him—a soft sigh of "changeling" and "dusted" and "hollow"—says he will be able to find his way back regardless, so long as he turns his foil cloak inside out.

_They can't keep me if I'm unsure of myself in the first place_ , he thinks as he steps into a clearing that does and _does not_ exist. An _end_ to the Sweetening Path, as it were. The standing stones.

The standing stones are so dark they're almost black until the light filtering into the clearing hits them, revealing the deep purple that turns to a magenta at the edges, glittering sugar crystals dusting them. In the center of it all is a flat table made of the stump of one of the lollipop trees with a single teacup on it.

He takes all of this in before he steps forward and kneels at the table, equidistant from all three stones. He bows his head and closes his eyes and thinks about all he's heard of the Sugar Plum Fairy.

Kind. Grants wishes. Fae. Capricious. Charming. Magic. Caring.

"Great Fairy, She Who Watches the Woods, I beseech thee, come to my aid." The words are said in an older tongue, one of the locals, a Lacran-Candian blend, nasal and sharp, rounded vowels and clicking plosives. He does not look up but he feels eyes on the back of his neck. "I who have been called changeling, would offer you much for what you give to those who seek it."

"Raise your head, o changeling, and look at Me." Her voice—and this is her, the Sugar Plum Fairy, he knows this before even looking up—is cool and inviting. He remembers stories of falling prey to the words of the fae and swallows before raising his head.

She is beautiful and terrific and he finds his chest seizes at the sight of her. Dragonfly wings of spun sugar, skin a soft lavender, she has four eyes a brilliant mauve that glitter with a strange intelligence. She is shaped like a person, thin with a fair face and short hair swept back as if by the wind, though her claw-tipped fingers and the mandibles that frame her full lips speak of something inherently Not. She extends one of her hands out and presses it to his face, cupping his cheek and brushing her thumb against his skin, her own far colder than he expects it to be.

He lets out a sharp gasp in surprise and her many eyes crinkle in amusement.

It is strange that he can read her better than any other person he's met. He wonders if this is because she is not going to lie to him—as is the nature of the Kind Neighbors—or if she is doing this for his benefit.

"They call _you_ changeling? _What_ a _disservice_ they do to you and your view of the world. Now," she says, airy, " _speak_. Tell me what it is you desire. What has brought someone so sharp to My domain?"

He is compelled at once to speak. He bites back and offers, instead, a thin smile. "What would guarantee that I would leave your domain _after_ I am done? Who is to say that, once I have given you my request, you just keep me here until you bore of my presence? They tell tales, o Glittering Lady, of your kind and their way with words and contracts. _Changeling_ I may be, but I am not as hollow as they say, and I would rather risk offending to secure my safety than to wander your domain until the war that rages outside is long over."

"I _would_ call you a fool, o hollow one, but a fool speaks without thought. That's something that weighs on your chest even as you look at Me as I am." Her laugh is windchimes and stained glass. His fingers drum its pattern on his leg. "I will let you go regardless. I do not wish harm on someone so _unique_." Her smile is strange, duplicitous in its evocation of the desire to flee and the understanding that she would not hurt him. “You are the first in a _long_ time that has sought Me out in such a direct manner. Many simply pray at My stones, the markers in the wild, and those of the earth and the hunt find My blessings given. Color Me intrigued then, that someone would so brazenly walk into this place with no wards or warning, heart open, tongue laden with questions, and a desire worn on their sleeves."

"May I speak freely?" She nods and he continues, each word a handpicked evocation of meaning and emotion. "As I said before, Madame of the Wilds, there is a war raging outside your domain, in my home. While many might seek this power—not just your _blessing_ , but your _power_ , a wish granted by one of the oldest and most powerful of this land—for their gain, I desire only to help my people." His voice pitches, panic settling in. It tinges the cool light of the Fairy's glade in warmer hues, catching his breath in his chest. Still, he continues on. "They're _dying_ and the Church refuses to send healers to us, claiming lack of resources. If you would afford me the power, however small, to heal and help them, then I would adhere to the ancient laws. _Whatever_ that would mean, _whatever_ you would ask of me, I would fulfil it. If it damns me, _so be it._ "

Her gaze is cool—almost _literally_ , a chill combing across his skin as she looks him up and down—and her smile soft. Framed by those strange insectoid mandibles, it curves upward in a coy and intrigued way. She nods her head, a slight incline, and her wings fold behind her back as she clasps her _many_ hands. "Hollow one, changeling, you are _quite_ bold." He lifts his chin so he is looking her in her eyes, setting his jaw and arching his back so he can prepare for whatever she decides. " _I like that_. You _care_."

She changes size, _smaller_ , but no less imposing, and flits in the air so she is resting over his shoulder. In spite of her size, she feels heavy, a burden, a _reminder_. She is dense and it is on purpose. Nothing she does is without purpose. _Remember what I am_ , this weight says. He drums the reminder in his leg, a pattern he will repeat for years to come.

"You are right. _Many_ who come to Me come with selfish desires. The hunters and the druids uphold My tenants as the devout would, but those that seek Me directly often want power and find the price _far_ too steep. But _you_ come here with a selfless desire and would pay _whatever_ price I named. That is _dangerous_ , changeling, and I am _most_ intrigued."

"They tell tale that you were the first to bless my kind with their skills," he says. "They say you grant wishes, that you bless children, that you take them in the middle of the night and leave behind simulacrum dusted to mimic the truth. There is _so much_ that we do and do not know about you that there's no reason for me to doubt a word of it. If I am a changeling, already touched by your or your kin's hand, then I have nothing to lose but a step sideways. _If not_ , there is little I could lose by way of this bargain that is worth more than the lives of my own."

" _Tales_ ," she says, a breathy hum as loud as it would be if she were her full size, "are often _wrong_. What if I were to say, dear changeling, that I do not _grant_ wishes? What if I were to say that I have wishes myself, that you can grant _for me_ , and I will give you the power to do so. What else you do with this power is your business, so long as My needs are met. _What then?_ Would this change your plea, your _bargain_? Would it tip the scales one way or the other?"

His mouth, dry, tacky, works around the words he wishes to say. "It would not." A damming admission, but he—changeling, hollow, dusted—is already too far gone. This is more than his life. More than his comfort. More than _anything_.

Her smile is chilling. The air is warm but his heart is cold as she flits around him and becomes her full size again, almond eyes crescent slivers of amusement. Leaning forward, she holds one hand out for him to accept. "Then _your name_ , changeling, for the magic you seek. I will make you into something great. _Someone powerful_. And you will grant My wishes with what remains."

He takes her hand, every fibre in his body screaming he not, and a Pact is made.

* * *

When the Pax Calorum is signed into effect and Gustavo Uvano named Emperor of the newly-formed Concord, the Pontifex Belizibeth Brassica finds an old note among her predecessor's belongings. A simple thing on white wax paper done in shimmering ink, smelling sweet as the place it came from. The swooping script is surprisingly easy to read and the information within is wildly useful to her and the Concord as a whole.

It is a response to a missive sent on behalf of her predecessor to a miracle worker in Northern Candia. Sharp and to the point is this response but the knowledge of his existence is a boon, as Candia does not have a Church representative and that is unacceptable in the eyes of the Bulb. It reads:

_If you desire my presence so greatly, you can find me where I work. Unfortunately, due to the war that rages in my home country, I cannot afford to leave to pay respects to the Bulb and have been making do with my own shrines and practices here. Should you consider my work worth a visit, Father Pontifex, I will gladly meet you. I just cannot abandon my people in this time of need — a sentiment I'm sure you've seen mirrored in the Blessed Saint Citrina, who also hails from Candia as I do._

_Pardon any slights this might incite, but the Bulb calls me to act and, while acts in court are well as they are, I am a man of the people first._

_Your Faithful Follower in the Bright Light,_

_Lapin Cadbury of the Spiraling Wilds in Candia-by-Lacre_

With a wave of her hand, the Heirophant Rex sends someone to find this Lapin Cadbury. A miracle worker is hard to find and Candia _must_ have Bulbian influence before the die is cast or it will become an issue.

Also...anyone willing to turn down her predecessor's call for an audience—even in a time of conflict in Candia— _must_ have some strong convictions. Perhaps she can sway them in her favor. A wise man is a reed in the wind, after all; not an oak in a storm. Bend and you will survive.

She can work with this.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked what I wrote. I just...love fae lore so much. And Lapin. He's fun. (Wish he was around longer.)


End file.
